


Coping Mechanisms

by Sarah_hadeschild



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Dancing, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Slow Burn, and just the right amount of Queen, basically no plot, just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-10 01:56:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_hadeschild/pseuds/Sarah_hadeschild
Summary: Crowley has a theory that anxiety can be eased with the Best of Queen album-- more specifically, singing it at full volume.A series about anxiety and its many antidotes.





	1. Save Me

“You have got to stop doing that.” Crowley stood in the entrance to the living room, watching Aziraphale stare blindly into his novel, his foot tapping on the base of the fireplace.

“Crowley! You startled me, Dear. I’m sorry, am I keeping you up?”

The clock on the mantle blinked 12:05 am. It was one week and several hours since the world didn’t end, and two weeks since Crowley had had any real sleep; not that he was counting.

Crowley rubbed his eyes. “It’s not just you. It’s bloody Hastur. I keep seein’ him come at me with a Super Soaker of holy water every time I close my eyes.”

“You poor Dear.” The angel furrowed his brow. “But whatever is a Super Soaker?”

Crowley smirked. “Water gun, Angel.”

“Ah. I see. Still-- a dreadful thing.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and apologetic. Crowley went over to him, struggling to see by the reading lamp Aziraphale had miracled into the space. He sat on the footstool opposite the angel and placed a hand on his still trembling knee. “We have got to get out of the flat. I think we’ll both go mad soon enough.”

“We went out this morning.” Aziraphale replied. 

And so they had, but it had done nothing to ease their minds. Aziraphale had spent their entire walk casting weary glances for Gabriel or Michael, and they had stopped popping into shops after the fifth one they visited played Queen upon their arrival—Crowley’s coping mechanism was becoming a public nuisance.

“Yeah, but there must be something we can do to stop this—” he waved his hand in the air before running it anxiously through his hair— “constant noise.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I know what you mean. I keep thinking I hear footsteps behind me. I’ve tried to cheer myself up with a book, but I can barely read anymore.” He watched Crowley as he sat opposite him, acutely aware that his hand was still on his leg. Before he could consider the consequences, he covered Crowley’s hand with his own. “And I do wish you could get some rest. I worry about you, sometimes.”

Crowley sat there quietly, mentally debating the merits of self-immolation. “Enough worrying, Angel.” He shot up from his seat, pulling Aziraphale with him. “We’re going for a drive.”

“Whereto?”

“Doesn’t matter.” 

….

“Slow down!”

“Angel, the whole point of this drive is to calm down, would you stop being so critic—Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing, pal?!” Crowley leaned out of his open window to criticize an ambulance as it sped by.

“Crowley! That was an ambulance!”

“An inconvenience is what it was.”

“But that’s—”

“What? What is it? Not nice?”

“Not fair.”

Crowley sighed, and slowed down. “Tell you what, Angel, look in the glove compartment and pick out some music.”

Aziraphale opened the compartment with his right hand—as he was still clutching the door handle with his left—and began riffling through the drawer. He triumphantly presented Crowley with some Bach, gleefully reflecting on a study he had once read that alluded to the calming effects of classical music. Perhaps instrumentals might encourage his dear companion to finally learn what it felt like to use a brake pedal. 

Crowley put on the CD and smiled to hear the dulcet tones of Freddie Mercury.

Aziraphale was aghast. “You said I could pick!”

“You picked Bach! We need to sing, Angel.”

“Sing?”

“Yes! For Go—for Satan’s—for Someone’s sake, you need to loosen up. Let some of that tension go or I swear one day that hideous bow tie is going to strangle you.” He leaned forward and turned the volume all the way up. Aziraphale adjusted his bow tie as defensively as it was possible to adjust a tartan bowtie.

The music ran through them like a wave. _ I love you, til I die. _ And as soon as he heard it, Crowley wanted to. He took a deep breath. 

“Save me, save me, SAAAVVE MEEEE. I can’t live this life alone!” Crowley was bent over the steering wheel singing at full volume—his voice was coarse, tired, and, from a technical standpoint, downright terrible. 

“What are you doing?!”

“What’s it look like? I’m singing, Angel! Don’t you like it?”

“It is… _ something, _ Dear.” He didn’t look at Crowley for long, but Crowley had seen it—that smile. 

“Come on, join in!”

“I—I—I don’t know this song!”

“We have been listening to Queen for decades in this car, ‘Ziraphale. I know you know it. Come on, aren’t angels supposed to sing?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “It’s not a prerequisite.”

“Suit yourself—Save me! Save me! SAAAVE MEE! I can’t face this life alone!” He reached his left arm out pleadingly, striking his chest as he belted the lyrics to passing motorists. 

Aziraphale was baffled. He had never seen Crowley so free and wild and self-assured, taking up so much space with flailing hands and desperate noise. Typically, Aziraphale was the one to rant while Crowley listened, the patient one between them. Aziraphale never did wear patience well.

The angel watched until he couldn’t anymore. “Each night I cry, I still believe the lie. I’ll love you, ‘til I die.” 

Crowley laughed when he heard it, Aziraphale’s gentle soprano. (If he had focused any more on the lyrics then he might have swerved the car) Of course, he thought, the angel had to have an elegant voice, even in the acoustics of a Hell-bent Bentley. He had no right to make Queen sound as gentle as he did.

Together their voices grew louder and louder as the car sped down the M-25, which opened up before them like the parting of the sea. The lack of drivers may have been due to the late hour, or perhaps they had the sense to stay well away from the unhinged singers barreling down it. 

Every bend in the road, every guitar solo, was breaking them open. Aziraphale giggled as Crowley hummed along to the guitar solo, one hand draped over the steering wheel, strumming the air with his free hand. And Aziraphale was getting bolder, too. He sang even when he was uncertain of the words, while mimicking Crowley’s passionate gestures. 

The music seemed to wipe them clean. It passed through them like a tidal wave and they emerged on the other side of it weak with relief. They had survived. It had finally sunken in as they cast their anxieties to the sky: they had survived. And they had a second chance stretching out before them like midnight road. Aziraphale felt it when he laughed so hard that he cried, and Crowley felt it when he noticed the angel’s tears and he knew he had done his job. No one could ever criticize his choice in music, for he had awoken Aziraphale and proclaimed his desperation in the same moment: Crowley was a sinner, asking to be saved. 

All his time spent orchestrating ways to get closer to his angel and now Aziraphale was meeting him halfway; singing backup to Crowley’s Bohemian Rhapsody as he reached for his arm, tugging him close for the dramatic finish. They were on the same side and they laughed defiantly at the cars as they passed them. Aziraphale was reminded of that haunting line from Homer, when Achilles said he wanted to eat the world raw. He felt _ invincible. _

When they had exhausted Crowley’s Best of Queen Album and the sun was threatening to rise, they returned home to the flat, neither one wanting to leave the safety of the Bentley. In here, it was just the two of them. In the night air, it was a different story. 

They sat there in the darkness a moment before Aziraphale found his courage again. He reached over and took Crowley’s hand in his. “Thank you for this. I feel so much better, my Dear.”

Crowley stared at the dashboard, thankful for his glasses. He still had yet to figure out how to hear the phrase ‘my dear’ directed at him without going into immediate heart failure. Thankfully, a Demon didn’t have much use for a heart. 

“Anytime, Angel. I’m glad it helped.” He paused, before asking the question he had felt on his lips since they started driving... decades back. “Do I still go too fast for you?”

Aziraphale smiled and it felt like a promise. “I think I’m getting used to it.”

There are some phenomena on this earth that simply cannot be accounted for by logic alone. Freak storms, tidal waves, and even volcanic eruptions can sometimes emerge in defiance of all scientific instruments and without so much as the movement of a dial. What happened next, Crowley imagined, was one of those unaccounted-for instances of sheer, unimaginable action. It was a miracle, you might say.

Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley was paralyzed by the sensation. The lips he had faced for the past six thousand years were on his, and he felt a gentle hand smooth through his hair. Time had stopped, and Crowley had no idea whether or not he was to blame for it. He didn’t care. He leaned forward and deepened the kiss. He cupped Aziraphale’s jaw with his hand, tracing his thumb over soft skin. Aziraphale sighed at the contact. Crowley’s mind went numb at the sound. 

“Oh, Angel—” he moaned as Aziraphale pulled away. He opened his eyes to watch his angel glance nervously from his hands to Crowley’s sunglasses. The flutter of nerves had returned.

“Did…did I do that right?”

Crowley took his hand, rubbing small circles onto the back of it as he struggled to regain his command of the English language.

“Yes. Yes of course you did.” He continued to stroke Aziraphale’s hand, afraid to look at his face to see regret or unhappiness. He feared that if Aziraphale were ever to regret his decision, he might cease to exist. “Of course you did.”

Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his opposite one, patted twice, and leaned away. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

He stepped outside, leaving Crowley alone in the Bentley, understanding nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this drabble! I can't imagine the anxious aftermath of Armageddon't, and want to explore how the two survive and overcome it. Also I love any excuse to listen to Queen while writing. If you have any Queen songs you'd like to see included/explored, let me know! :)
> 
> In case you missed it, this chapter was inspired by Queen's Save Me.
> 
> Dedicated to Michael Sheen...because that feels right? Enjoy it, my bro.


	2. All the Way from Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That certain night,  
The night we met,  
There was magic abroad in the air;  
There were angels dining at the Ritz,  
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
> 
> _ A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square, _ Vera Lynn

After centuries of stolen moments and lingering in doorways, Aziraphale’s leap of faith was an anomaly to an otherwise recognizable pattern. However much joy he had gained from that brief moment was overshadowed by its incredible divergence from traditional reality—the overwhelming feeling that One of These Things was Not Like the Others. The anomaly brought into question centuries worth of data analysis and general patterns. The breech in conduct created a veritable minefield for Aziraphale, who now wondered whether or not he should still prepare a cup of tea for each of them (as it was customary to do before Crowley went to bed) now that everything was Different; it was also morning, which brought up an entirely new philosophical conundrum about the effects of taking night tea by the sunrise. 

The tea helped Crowley sleep, however, so Aziraphale prepared it regardless of its philosophical consequence.

He went to Crowley’s bedroom door and handed it to him through the threshold. The demon had already changed into his silk pajamas but had yet to remove his glasses. _Always stylish, _ Aziraphale thought, _ even during the ungodly hours. _ Although, since he was a demon, perhaps it was best to assume that all of Crowley’s hours were ungodly.

The two stood there in silence as Crowley nodded to Aziraphale and took the mug, their hands brushing as he did so. Together they abandoned all sense of protocol.

Aziraphale avoided his gaze. “We don’t have to talk about it, Dear.”

_ Yes, _ Crowley thought, _ we do. I’m aching to talk about it. To acknowledge how it felt to be wanted. How it felt when you met me halfway and I leaned into it like a pillow and I’m so damned tired of all of this. I’m tired of wandering in the dark wondering when you’re going to come around and light me up again. I need to know when that is going to happen and please, please, please let it be soon. _

“Whatever you want, Angel.” He caved; he was used to caving. That’s how this dance went between the two of them. Crowley bent around Aziraphale like a bell curve, drawn and inclined around him like that wing that once covered him in Eden. He fell into its well-worn track like a bed at the end of a long day. The Routine was simple, it was easy, and it worked. It had worked thus far. 

Nevertheless, Crowley was having doubts as to how long that routine could continue. Touching Aziraphale like that was different. He felt himself being drawn down a different path. The last time he felt himself drawn away from routine was when he fell. Now he felt the world falling out from under his feet again, but for a sweeter reason. He would do anything to feel weightless again, in this delicious way. And knowing Aziraphale, he needed time; he needed patience. He would try to give it to him. Try.

“I’m going to bed. Enjoy your book.”

Aziraphale took a step closer, hesitating in Crowley’s doorway. His brows were furrowed with concern. Crowley forced himself to meet the angel’s eyes. He could feel the anxiety coming off him in waves, and he wasn’t about to let their car ride be for naught. 

“You ok, Angel?”

“Um, yes. Mostly. I just worry. I—I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t. You could never.”

They stood there, facing off in the dim light of morning. They had walked this line for centuries, but never so closely; so desperately. Aziraphale had moved them lightyears ahead with a single action and Crowley’s guard had cracked that much more. 

He put his hand on Aziraphale’s arm, closing the space between them. “I’m not offended, Angel. I’m overjoyed.”

Aziraphale beamed up at him with those eyes that forgave him the world. Him, Crowley, the demon who could never bring himself to ask for it. “Oh, good. That’s…wonderful.” 

Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley’s jaw, tracing the coarse skin with his thumb. They felt the comfort of centuries between them, centuries of friendship and reciprocity and aching, aching want. Crowley leaned into the warmth. They waited.

“You should get some sleep, my dear.” With a curt nod and a dash of courage, Aziraphale placed a chaste kiss on Crowley’s cheek and dashed out the door. 

Crowley sat himself down on the bed, placing the cup gently on the nightstand. It was Aziraphale’s cup, adorned with white angel wings for a handle. He smiled. A piece of him remained behind. The demon sat a while, contemplating the heart beating in his throat before his exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

…

Peace, if you were to ask the ancient intellectuals, was a passing phase; a chapter of a greater story; the interim between heroic tasks. It never lasted for long.

Crowley’s dreams alternated between two persistent themes: a deadly tide of holy water, and a blazing ring of fire. The former was meant for him, the latter for Aziraphale. And he could easily tell you which of the two he feared the most.

This time was different—heightened, somehow. He was standing beside his angel, breathing his name just above a whisper. The icy ivory betrayed their presence in Heaven. They shouldn’t be here.

Crowley’s heart pounded in his chest as he reached to Aziraphale, seeking his pale suit with his hands. They needed to go. But Aziraphale heard nothing; felt nothing. It was as if Crowley weren’t even there. The angel was staring through him.

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale said, simply. He entwined his hands before him, and Crowley thought he looked strong. He also looked frightened—the two were always a mix, for him.

“Aziraphale.” The angel approached him from across the long corridor, though any sign of an entrance was shrouded in the bright celestial light of impossibly high windows. 

Gabriel wasn’t alone.

A second figure emerged behind him, this one rising out of the floor, a steaming black liquid. It oozed and bubbled as it grew, shooting up from the floor to form a slouching figure of ebony and charred earth. Slowly, a face emerged. It was Beelzebub.

“Look who came out for the execution: the devil himself. Or, at least his secretary.” Said Gabriel, stepping closer.

Beelzebub flashed Aziraphale a look that would have melted the corneas of any mortal being. From Aziraphale, it merely elicited a light shudder. Crowley was paralyzed. Beelzebub in Heaven—imagine it. He wouldn’t have made the journey for anything less than a capital offense. He felt his knees quake beneath him, and he screamed. 

Crowley screamed as he had never screamed in his life. The screams produced in a burning bookshop were nothing compared to the ferocious, echoing cries which burst forth now. He crumbled beneath them, feeling the cool marble floors as he pooled on top of them, shrieking and wailing. No one noticed him. It was always like this—they never noticed him. Not since they cast him out. He was nothing to them now, but, unfortunately for him, Aziraphale was their top priority. 

Beelzebub waved a hand over open flame. 

Gabriel laughed. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes.

And Crowley screamed.

“Crowley! Crowley!” He heard his name being called back to him. Someone could hear him. He cried right back.

“Crowley! Oh my dear!” the voice was clearer now, sympathetic. He clung to it, pulling himself out of the swamp.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale pulled him close to him, holding his head with a gentle and steady hand. The two were sat up on Crowley’s bed, one desperately clinging to the other.

He was alive. _ How is this possible? _ Crowley thought, holding onto him like a man lost at sea, clinging to a life preserver. He was alive. Aziraphale was alive and he was holding him, stroking his hair and cooing at him in the darkness. Crowley was shaking like a leaf. He tried to focus on Aziraphale, his hands, his warmth, his presence, but it was no use. The dream had roused every anxiety, every fear he had harboured within him over these past few weeks. He felt it all and it was suffocating.

“It’s ok, Crowley. You’re safe. I’m here, I’ve got you.” 

“’s not me, Angel.” He leaned back, looking Aziraphale in his eyes; those eyes. He watched him as he whispered, “it was you. They hurt you, Angel.”

“No one has hurt me, Dear. Look at me, I’m fine.” He swept Crowley’s hair from his face—one swift motion—resolute.

“Gabriel ‘n…Beelzebub…”

“They’re not here. But I am, Crowley. I am. _ I am.” _

The angel held him tightly in his arms, stroking his hair. He had thought about touching Crowley’s hair for centuries—when it was long and braided in Galgotha, short and curly in Rome. He had always wondered what it would feel like. Now, with Crowley a nervous wreck curled in silk sheets, he knew. It was soft and soothing. He only hoped that Crowley would feel the same. Aziraphale had never seen him so afraid. He had so rarely had the opportunity to see Crowley’s eyes behind his fashionable defense mechanism and seeing them wide and his snakelike pupils stretched taught in terror was heart wrenching. _ Crowley had dreamt of me and it made him cry, _ he thought. Angels are supposed to be beings of love, and yet he had inspired such fear in Crowley…

Aziraphale focused on the care; the kind words, the soothing movements of his hand through his hair, his arm around his shoulder—and he poured himself into the actions. He focused on his own hands and imagined his devotion to Crowley as something corporeal. It felt like cashmere, all soft with no hard edges or seams; the most comfortable thing in the world. He imagined himself swathing them both in this white illusion, and slowly but surely, Crowley calmed down.

Pulling away from his angel, Crowley met his eyes again. This time, they were soft. “Stay. Will you?”

“You don’t even have to ask it, my Dear.”

Aziraphale stood and waited for Crowley to make himself comfortable. He then shed his jacket and his waistcoat—so as to be comfortable but not at all scandalous—and joined him under the blanket. He lay there a moment, waiting, while Crowley kept to himself, a bundle of nerves in the fetal position.

He sighed. “Get over here, you wily serpent.”

Crowley released his breath with a warm sigh and scooted closer, resting his head on Aziraphale’s chest. The tips of his tousled hair ticked Aziraphale’s nose, and the angel smoothed them down with a gentle hand before placing it on Crowley’s shoulder. He dragged his fingers lazily across his arm, waiting for the tension in his shoulders to subside. Every movement reminded Crowley that he was cared for, and for the first time since Heaven Crowley felt that he was not alone.

“Sing to me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sing to me, Angel. Whatever you like. Just want to hear your voice.”

“Well, alright then. If it will make you feel better.”

Crowley nestled even closer in silent agreement.

The angel sang soft and low, and Crowley leaned into his chest, feeling the vibration of every note, every breath:

That certain night,  
The night we met,  
There was magic abroad in the air;  
There were angels dining at the Ritz,  
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.  
I may be right I may be wrong,  
But I'm perfectly willing to swear,  
That when you turned and smiled at me  
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

Crowley smiled. “A nightingale did sing in Berkeley Square.”

“Not true.”

“’s true. I heard it.” Crowley sighed. “All the way from Eden.”


	3. Somebody to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...You might miss out on a rare opportunity.”
> 
> He smiled. “An opportunity to do what?”
> 
> “To find out who makes for the better dancer—an angel or a demon.”

There’s something to be said for comfort—the way it is given and the way it is received. In the moment it’s simple: a hand on a cheek, a kiss on the temple. It’s only in the aftermath that comfort evolves into something else. In hindsight, comfort feels like a gift; Crowley thought it felt divine.

Perhaps this is why he slept for two days. 

As the demon drifted in and out of consciousness, his veritable guardian angel kept watch over him. (Keeping watch and occasionally enjoying a snack.) When Crowley stirred, Aziraphale would look up from his book, and when he was satisfied that the demon hadn’t fallen back into a state of distress, he would read again. When Crowley snored—and he did snore—Aziraphale would quietly step outside to make some tea. He found the sound oddly amusing; funny, the way even a demon forfeited control for such a human thing as sleep.

It was on the morning of the third day when Aziraphale decided to rouse him. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he put a hand to Crowley’s forehead, smoothing back his dishevelled hair, and spoke to him softly. “Wake up, Crowley. It’s time to get up.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s shoulders began to rise and his eyes slowly opened. Seeing the angel in front of him, Crowley reached for his hand and brought it to his lips before he had the chance to ask whether or not he was dreaming. He hoped he wasn’t.

Aziraphale blushed watching him. 

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Aziraphale asked, his hand still resting in Crowley’s.

The demon smiled ruefully. “Nothing in particular.”

They sat there a moment, each one watching and waiting on the other. Both were aware that they were in the midst of an in-between-moment, where nothing was decided and nothing else truly mattered. It felt comforting. The light slipping through the window lit Aziraphale from behind, and to Crowley he practically glowed, like brilliant stained glass.

“So…how long was I out?”

“Just about two days, Dear.”

He blinked, nodding. “Ok, that’s good. I mean, I feel good. Better.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’m glad.”

“And I’m glad that you didn’t let me waste another decade asleep.”

“Never again, Crowley. I nearly went mad here, not having anyone to talk to.” He paused, looking down at their entwined hands. “I nearly caved and woke you last night.”

“And what stopped you?”

He shrugged. “I knew you were tired…and I found a rather thrilling book about the manuscript tradition in Southern Italy.”

Crowley laughed, light and weightless. “So you mean to say that the pleasure of my company is only slightly less amusing to you than the history of Italian parchment paper?”

“And its preservation.” Aziraphale added helpfully.

Crowley sighed. “Well at least you didn’t find any dissertations on Italian deserts. I might have lost years in here.”

“At least.”

“Well, Angel, I guess the question is…” Crowley leaned forward expectantly. “What are you in the mood for now?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment, his eyes lighting up like a scientist on the brink of a monumental discovery. “Crepes!”

…….

It turns out that Crowley is incapable of completing any proper task without just an element of music. As Aziraphale read out the ingredients for a crepe recipe from his book—one that Crowley is certain the angel manifested specifically for the task—Crowley felt himself being pulled in another direction; towards the record player. 

Despite the myriad of technological advancements since the record player, Crowley has remained devoted to the classic method. This is partly because he appreciates the machine itself, the way it looks and the care taken to maintain it, which makes the music itself feel like a reward for a job well done. But mostly he keeps it around for the sake of the rather extensive record collection which he has been curating since the fifties. Many of his favorites came from Aziraphale, and it would be rude to simply overhaul a system that worked just because of the ease and convenience of the modern smartphone, now wouldn’t it? Besides, no matter how much Bach Aziraphale gave him, it always shifted to rock and roll in good time.

Crowley picked up his favorite record (which could have been any one of them) and placed the record on the spindle. A gentle bass beat filled the room.

Aziraphale looked up from his batter just in time to see Crowley walking hip-first into the kitchen, continually popping his collar and lowering it to the beat of Another One Bites the Dust. Crowley mouthed the words and Aziraphale’s answering smile was electric. He burst into a fit of giggles as Crowley shifted his glasses up and down his nose like a cartoon character looking at its next meal.

“Crowley! Stop, I’m going to spill the batter.” 

“There are worse things, Angel. You might miss out on a rare opportunity.”

He smiled. “An opportunity to do what?”

“To find out who makes for the better dancer—an angel or a demon.”

Placing the bowl back down on the counter, Aziraphale straightened his bow tie with a steady hand, gently tugged his jacket smooth and centered, and responded, “as the kids are saying these days, It’s On.”

Now, there are certain rules and regulations about dancing, which, although unspoken, really ought to have been conveyed explicitly to Aziraphale when he attended his dance class in the nineteenth century. Number One: The gavotte really works best with instrumentals; the additions of an electric guitar and Freddie Mercury make it incredibly difficult to focus on one’s dance steps and overall dignity. Number Two: It is very, very difficult to mouth the words to Another One Bites the Dust while dancing without losing track of the plot entirely and nearly walking into the kitchen stove. And Number Three: You cannot dance the gavotte alone. It makes the grand finale, complete with kissing your dance partners, rather alarming for your opponent, who will blush incredibly and forfeit his participation entirely. 

These complications ultimately sabotaged their competition to the point where Aziraphale confidently believed that he had won, and Crowley was certain that he had cheated. Both contestants were nevertheless very happy.

When the crepes were finally cooked and eaten, and the record was playing half-heartedly in the corner, Crowley sat contemplating the purchase of a sound system. He had done a fair bit of research online and had long considered getting one for the house. He quite liked the idea of surround sound, and he wondered whether such a system could be compatible with a record player. He was only moderately surprised to look up and spot a speaker over his kitchen cabinets and another in the far corner, their wires leading back to the record player. _ Hmm. _ He thought to himself, _ luck of the devil. _

As Aziraphale finished the last of his breakfast and set the plate contentedly into the sink, the music picked up again. It started out gentle and low, then wrapped them both in its tune. 

Aziraphale jumped at the opening.

_ Can anybodyyyyy… _

Crowley stood up from the table.

_ Find meeee… _

He approached Aziraphale and waited.

_ Somebody to….Love… _

Reaching out in front of him, Crowley bowed his head before the angel, and waited. When he felt Aziraphale’s hand flutter over his he pulled him close, raising their arms for a gentle waltz. 

Crowley led them clumsily across the kitchen, all nerves and stolen glances. Aziraphale clung to him tightly, unsteady on his feet. Together they spun and twirled throughout the loft. If plants possessed necks of any kind, then it might have been appropriate to say that the plants craned their necks to watch as their vengeful master laughed and danced down the hall—although he did give them a nasty look as he passed. They were used to the music, but not to the joy. They may have gained inches in growth attempting to peer down the hallway.

By the time they had reached the kitchen once more, Crowley had taken to singing the song to Aziraphale, serenading him with a loud, steady voice; the technical shortcomings were aided by his utmost sincerity. Aziraphale was content to watch it all, the way Crowley moved, and the way they moved together. He tried to ignore the way they slotted together so easily, two mortal enemies dancing together, singing together, singing to each other—as if every step they took was not ground breaking. As if every twirl didn’t gnaw away just a little bit more at the walls they surrounded themselves with. He could see the laugh lines forming at the corners of Crowley’s eyes, peeking out from behind his shadowy frames. He wondered whether or not he had ever seen those before. He didn’t think he had. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time when Crowley was this happy, even in the Beginning. 

_ I get down on my knees and I start to pray… _

Crowley rolled his eyes back into his head, stubbornly refusing to sing the line. 

Aziraphale laughed, completing the sentiment with a soprano: 

_ Praise the lord! _

Crowley scoffed at him and rolled his eyes once more, slowing their pattern across the marbled floors. Aziraphale blushed, burying his face in the demon’s shoulder. Some things never change. 

They slowed their pace as the song faded, the record coming to its end—or perhaps the machine had simply grown tired of playing. Either way, the two ended up in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by forgotten dishes and a trail of flour where they had cooked together. There they stood in the midst of it all, staring. 

Crowley looked down at Aziraphale, his head still tucked gracefully into his shoulder, and he sighed. “Is this what it’s going to be like now? You and me?” He stroked the angel’s back as he asked it, drawing a long steady line where the question mark remained.

Aziraphale looked at him, all morning light and joyfulness. “ἆς θέλετ’ ὖμμες.”

Crowley blinked. “My ancient Greek is a bit rusty, darling. Oh, don’t look at me like that, we aren’t all living in the past, now are we?”

“It means as long as you want.” Aziraphale looked up at him. “For as long as you want.”


	4. Just Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You will remember  
When this is blown over  
Everything's all by the way  
When I grow older  
I will be there at your side to remind you  
How I still love you (I still love you)  
I still love you
> 
> \- Queen, _ Love of My Life _

For thousands of years, Crowley has enjoyed, on and off, the benefits of a good night’s sleep. Of course, being a demon, the hours spent re-charging his energy were not necessary, although he imagined that they were. And his imagination made all the difference. Besides, it was nice to tune out the world, if only for a little while. 

Lately, Crowley hasn’t felt the need to tune out quite so strongly. He enjoyed the long days Aziraphale kept and found himself falling into his old and proven path. The angel enjoyed a well-established routine of reading by the fireplace, checking in on the shop (which he maintained with the help of a delightfully incapable employee whom he had recently hired to keep the customers at a minimum), and ending his day with a visit to a nice restaurant. Crowley began to feel himself shifting towards Aziraphale and his routine more and more each day. He scrolled his phone in the mornings while Aziraphale read his dusty paperbacks. He accompanied him to the store most days, listening to the prattling summary of whatever Aziraphale had read that morning, and took the liberty of covering the cost of dinner. Although, in truth it was Hell that was footing the bill, but he didn’t care. Aziraphale had given them the scare of a lifetime—he figured that they would gladly put up with the occasional expense if it kept them off of Hell’s doorstep. 

Crowley’s favorite part of the routine was its conclusion. After enjoying some wine and light reading—well, light for him, endlessly fascinating for the angel—he would stretch and announce his retreat to bed. Aziraphale was never far behind, usually carrying a book or a mug of hot cocoa. And they would rest. They made a nest of Crowley’s bedroom, filling it with books and clothes and warm lighting—all of these additions made by Aziraphale of course—and each night they concealed themselves within, alone together at last. 

The pattern they had established was only natural, of course. Crowley’s nightmares settled down significantly when Aziraphale was present to watch over him. They already shared a house, and increasingly, a routine, so it made perfect sense to share this too. Whatever ‘this’ was. Neither one said a single thing about it. They didn’t need to. They were on the same side.

And each night, as Crowley’s breathing began to even out, and Aziraphale became somewhat distracted from his current read, he put aside his drink and reached for his phone. Crowley had been the one to insist that he got it, as a way to stay in touch even when Aziraphale was separated from the old rotary phone in the bookshop. The angel had been quite surprised to find that it came with many abilities, including the capability to search and download music. He found it quite useful for evenings like this, when Crowley began tapping his feet and staring into nothing. The habits Aziraphale had attributed to eccentricity in the past he now recognized as anxiety. Luckily, Queen was just a click away.

Aziraphale had downloaded all of the classic ballads. Pressing play, he turned the volume down to a quiet hum, placing it on the nightstand beside him. Aziraphale was about to turn off the lamp and scoot closer when he noticed that Crowley was still sporting his sunglasses, even as he lay with one arm behind him and his eyes closed beneath the shades. 

Aziraphale left the light on and sat up. “Crowley, Dear?”

Crowley sighed, turning towards him. “Yes, Angel?”

“You forgot to take off your sunglasses.”

He frowned, groaning slightly as he waved his hand in dismissal. “Naw I didn’t.”

Aziraphale waited.

“So…you sleep with them on now?”

“No…I’m just waiting for you to turn the light off is all.”

“I see.” He waited, again. “Is it difficult to see without them? In the light, I mean.”

“Not really…I’ve just gotten used to wearing ‘em. No big deal.”

It was starting to feel like one to Aziraphale. He studied Crowley’s face: all softness and patience at this time of night. Still, there was something else there—a small warning in the firmness of his brow that begged Aziraphale for something, though he hadn’t the slightest idea what that something could be.

“May I…take them off for you?”

Crowley shifted, his arms crossing in front of him defensively. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“To see you, of course. I just want to see you.” _ And I want to see you looking back at me. _

Crowley gazed up at Aziraphale with all the seriousness of a man at confessional, preparing to pour himself out to a stranger. Aziraphale waited. He had gotten very good at waiting, and he wanted his view of Crowley to be handed to him willingly, on a silver platter, ready to be devoured.

“Ok.” He whispered; it was enough.

Aziraphale scooted closer in the bed, his foot accidentally colliding with Crowley’s leg. He was about to pull away, but Crowley didn’t move. Perhaps he was grounding himself, digging his heels in metaphorically as Aziraphale stripped him clean of his shield. He drew in a breath.

Aziraphale removed the glasses with the utmost care, smoothing Crowley’s hair aside as it shifted with the spectacles. He placed the glasses on the nightstand and lay himself down in the sheets facing his companion. Crowley’s eyes remained resolutely closed.

“My Dear,” he began, tentative and kind. “Why don’t you want me to see your eyes? I’ve seen them on numerous occasions, and you must know that I find them quite fetching.”

Crowley scoffed. “Only because we’ve never been this close before. You’ve never got a proper look.”

“Precisely. That’s what I’m asking from you now.”

No effect. Crowley brought his hand to his forehead, covering his eyes with it as he lay there. Aziraphale felt his heart break just a little. 

“You won’t like it.”

“Why ever not?” 

“Well—well because—you’re not supposed to like them anyways, eh? You being the angel of the lord and all that nonsense. I’m a demon. I have demonic eyes. And if eyes are the windows to the soul and all that then…” His voice broke at the end. A creak in the night. “Then you won’t want to see ‘em is all.”

“Crowley, I think we’re both past hiding behind our respective sides, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you would agree that I am far from being the paragon of a celestial being, yes?”

“That’s not fair, ‘Ziraphale. You’re better than the lot of them.”

“Yes, you see, that’s what I’m saying. You aren’t just _ some _ demon, you’re Crowley. Your eyes are not demonic, they’re you. And frankly there aren’t any on heaven and earth—”

Crowley grinned. “Horatio.”

“—that I would rather see. And since you brought up Shakespeare again, let me just say, he was not right about everything.”

“Certainly not.”

“I mean the only reason he stuck around for so long was because of you and that Hamlet miracle you performed.”

“He was a bit rubbish at times, wasn’t he?”

He sighed. “At times, he certainly was. But then again we all are.”

“Not you. Never you.” Crowley reached out blindly before him, still shielding his eyes with his opposite hand. He latched onto Aziraphale’s arm and groped his way down to his hand. “I look at you and I see all the best parts of Heaven. Minus all the stuffy business attire and corporate bureaucracy. Not to mention Gabriel.”

“Ugh. Gabriel.”

“Wanker.”

“Anyways—back to the subject at hand; you must know that I see you the same way, Crowley. That I see someone who was an angel once…”

“And is now no longer.”

He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “And is now something better. You’re free, Crowley. You’ve always understood that, and you’ve always urged me to be the same, even when I wasn’t brave enough. Even when I found no such courage in myself. You are the one who opened my cage and set me free. And if the eyes are the windows to the soul, as you say, then please, please, let me see yours. I want to see you and see the soul that set mine free, Crowley.”

Crowley swallowed, wondering whether miracle-ing the fire alarm to go off would be an appropriate response. He decided against it. “Fine.”

Slowly, he removed his hand, turning to face Aziraphale. He hesitated a moment before opening his eyes. 

Aziraphale let out a slight gasp as he looked at Crowley, studying his face. His eyes were a brilliant yellow, like amber set alight. The narrow black centre seemed to shine out of them, dividing the image into sections of brilliance that moved and breathed with his essence. Most of all, they looked like Crowley.

“Oh, Crowley.” He dragged his hands upward to cup either side of the demon’s face, stroking his cheekbones and the pale skin beside his eyes. “They’re marvellous.”

Crowley opened his mouth in protest.

“No. Shut up, they’re gorgeous.”

He smirked. “Can angels really say ‘shut up?’”

“As we’ve established, Dear, I am a bit of a rebel.”

The kiss happened suddenly—a thoughtless action. Aziraphale leaned into Crowley, kissing him passionately. Crowley snaked his hands around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling his body even closer on the bed. He held the angel tightly, overwhelmed by his words and his lips and—when Aziraphale groaned into his open mouth—the sound of him. He felt his jaw tighten and tears threaten to escape his eyes as he clung to Aziraphale, desperately trying to hold back centuries of hiding in favour of his all-too-recent revelation. He was a free man, indeed.

Aziraphale kissed him and kept kissing him, his tongue swiping over Crowley’s mouth as he traced his hand down his chest, trying desperately to convey the love which he now felt bubbling up in his chest and reflected back to him by Crowley. Tentatively, he pulled away. 

“I’d like to try something.”

Crowley was an open book, begging to be read. “By all means.”

Azirphale, propping himself up on the pillow, leaned over Crowley who watched from below, his eyes following his every movement. 

Aziraphale began at the temple. There, he placed a gentle kiss as he smoothed Crowley’s hair back into the pillow. He then pulled back again, stroking the side of Crowley’s face. 

“Close your eyes.”

Crowley did as he was told. All his cards were on the table. 

Aziraphale leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on each of Crowley’s eyelids, one and then the other. He felt Crowley quake beneath him as he did so, at a loss for words and just about everything else.

“You are,” Aziraphale whispered, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, “so…” his jawline, “so…” his neck, “beautiful.”

“Now who’s the one playing the devious tempter?” Crowley asked, swiping at his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Not devious if it’s true.”

Crowley reached a hand to Aziraphale’s face, gently cupping his jaw.

“I adore you, my Dear.” He leaned aside, pressing a kiss into Crowley’s palm. “And it’s not devious if it’s for love.”

Crowley lay there, trying his best to recall the symptoms of a massive heart attack. “You love me, Angel?”

“With all my heart and all my soul.”

“Terrible decision, really.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Best one I ever made.”

The angel nudged still closer, laying his head gently on Crowley’s chest. _ Great,_ the demon thought to himself, _ tell the whole bloody world about the state of my heart. _

“I love you too, you know. I mean, you must do.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, I had assumed you loved me, in a way. I just had a hard time trying to work out the method of it.” He looked up. “I can sense love, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, and a dog can sniff out a bone. Quit bragging, Angel.” He paused, staring up at the ceiling fan, wondering when his world had become so soft and generous. “Do you know what? I didn’t even need to decide that I love you. Thought never occurred. It just happened. I just looked up one day, saw you reading in the corner, and thought, huh. Ok. Makes sense.”

“What made sense?”

“Everything. Just everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was...a lot. It got away from me.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this drabble! I can't imagine the anxious aftermath of Armageddon't, and want to explore how the two survive and overcome it. Also I love any excuse to listen to Queen while writing. If you have any Queen songs you'd like to see included/explored, let me know! :)
> 
> In case you missed it, this chapter was inspired by Queen's Save Me.
> 
> Dedicated to Michael Sheen...because that feels right? Enjoy it, my bro.


End file.
